


Must Be A Devil Between Us

by bloodpopsicles



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, No Smut, On the Run, chillin in a cabin in the great white north, filling in the gaps of that 3 month time jump, two crime children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:24:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodpopsicles/pseuds/bloodpopsicles
Summary: After a long cold night fleeing Varga's men, Nikki and Mr. Wrench find themselves on the run. Luckily, a life of crime has its advantages, namely a safe house north of the Canadian border. Too bad communication breakdown has left the two strangers to each other even when they're running for their lives. Good thing there's plenty of time to get to know each other while off the grid.





	1. Notes

First things first, she bought a notebook. The kind that kids use, with the lined paper and the flimsy aluminum spiral binding. 38 cents at a convenience store outside Thief River Falls. Before that it was 3 hours on back roads in a freezing VW with no conversation. True, she could talk to him all she wanted, but all she got in return was increasingly frustrated hand gestures. Eventually, her passenger--accomplice?--threw up the universal sign for 'fuck it,' turned towards the window, and settled into an uncomfortable sleep.

Nikki had been on the run a few times, in her younger days, before she learned to make her money in a semi-honest fashion. She still remembered the basics--stay off the highways, get out of the state ASAP, and don't think you're gonna get anywhere fast. The important thing wasn't getting there quick, it was getting there at all. Sans cuffs and Miranda rights. 

Speaking of. Nikki glanced at her wrist, the handcuff chain still dangling, jingling with every pothole. It would have to come off eventually. Her heart beat in time with the throbbing in her leg, which was hastily wrapped with a piece of her ripped track suit. That may have to come off, too. 

He was still dozing in the front seat when she returned to the car with a bag full of water and junk food to hold them over till greener pastures. She expected him to stir when she slammed the door, or when the engine sputtered to life. She kept forgetting. 

With a hesitant hand she reached out and gently shook his shoulder. The man's eyes flicked open and quick as a flash he grabbed her hand, rough, twisting it in his grip. His gaze was cold and wild at first, and a gasp strangled Nikki's throat. But after a moment, the man seemed to realize where he was, searching her face, remembering. He released her hand and shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He put a fist to his chest and moved it in a circle.

Nikki reached into the bag and pulled out the notebook and a pen. The man watched her, looking beleaguered. She opened to the first page and scrawled "Might make things easier."

The man cracked a tiny grin, and nodded. 

Nikki drove with one hand, the other passing and writing all the way to Canada. First, it was names--Wes Wrench is what he said, although Nikki knew it was unlikely that was his Christian name. After the basics, he handed her a page that read "Why were they chasing you?"

Nikki frowned. "Long story. Got mixed up with some evil. They killed my fiancé, I'm next."

Wrench chuckled, and she shot him a glare. "It's not funny," she said out loud.

He wrote a response--"Been there." 

They were approaching the border. They would need to ditch the car and cross on foot, a prospect Nikki was dreading given her leg. Wrench saw her frowning, and wrote. "I know a place. Safe house. 5 miles off 7035. I give directions." 

She gave him a wary look, then nodded. 

After a moment, he smirked, and added--"Limping distance."

They passed a sign--7 miles to the Canadian border. Wrench caught her furtive glances.

“Go ahead through the checkpoint,” he wrote.

She read it, furrowing her brow and frowning. Shook her head.

He rolled his eyes and added-- “Trust me.”

Nikki had never been much inclined to trust anybody, least of which her seatmate on a prison transport bus. Least of which a criminal. But then she remembered the air conditioner and the stamp and the parole. The silver still encircling her bloody wrist. Maybe she wasn't in a position to judge.

They rolled up slow to the checkpoint, a rundown glorified toll booth on the edge of an evergreen forest. Nikki shot Wrench a nervous glance, but in response he just nodded and jerked his chin up. Go ahead. 

Easing to a stop Nikki turned slow to the young man sitting in the small glass box. He looked barely 20, still sporting acne sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

“Well hey there! Can I ask what business brings you to Canada?”

Nikki opened her mouth to speak, but before she could stammer out a reply, Wrench tapped her on the shoulder. He handed her the notebook, gesturing for her to show the boy. Nikki saw what was written in bright red ink as the boy took the paper-- “Mr. Tripoli sends his regards.” 

The boy read the message, his wide friendly grin fading to a slight frown. He looked past Nikki and locked eyes with Wrench.

“We both know Tripoli hasn't controlled the north in years,” the young man wrote. “Moses’s Fargo is dead a buried.” He handed the book back.

Wrench sighed and started signing angrily, grabbing the pad from Nikki. He scrawled out a furious response.

“Fine, MR. MALVO sends his regards, asshole.”

The boy chuckled when he read the answer. “You haven't changed a bit, Wrench. The old cabin is empty far as I know. Good luck to ya, bastard.”

Wrench nodded begrudgingly at the boy after he read the message. And just like that, the shitty, icicle-encrusted wooden arm raised to let them into The Great White North.

Nikki glanced over at Wrench, looking him up and down. He wrote “You’re welcome,” and feigned a bow. She couldn’t help but be at least a little impressed. She held out her hand expectantly and he passed her the book. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Nikki wrote. 

He grinned, and wrote back: “We’ll get to that later.”

The cabin was tiny, maybe the size of Nikki’s apartment, if she was being generous. It was tucked away between two squat hills, surrounded by thick woodland for miles and miles. A pile of firewood sat outside stacked in a pyramid. Nikki wasn’t one for roughing it, but right now this shack looked like the Minneapolis Hilton. 

Wrench nodded and exited the car, wincing as he went. He walked over to the woodpile, crouched next to it. He grabbed the log in the very center, like a giant Jenga set, sliding it out with some difficulty due to the arrow wound in his shoulder. A small hole had been carved into the wood, just big enough to hide a key. 

Looking back up to the car, he raised his good arm and beckoned Nikki toward the cabin. Wrench fiddled with the door and opened it as Nikki limped toward him through the snow. 

Somehow, the inside of the cabin was even colder than the frigid snowscape outside. It was sparsely furnished, but what could you expect from an organized crime syndicate safehouse? A couch, a chair, a motheaten rug, a wood-burning stove, a tiny television with bent rabbit ears. The kitchen was little more than a beat-up fridge, a foot and a half of counter, and a stove that looked like it had survived the Depression. Nikki wandered into a cramped hallway. A bedroom and a bathroom, and that’s all she wrote. 

Trapped in 500 square feet with a textbook example of the strong silent type, who was much too good at killing not to have done it before. Perfect. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First things first, he had to warm this place up. Wes had only visited the safe house a few times before, when things got a little too dicey for him and Numbers. But of course, that was before regime change. Before everything went to shit. He didn’t know who kept it up now that Moses was gone but it was always stocked, always ready, and he knew who to call for special requests. One thing he did remember was it was a bitch to keep warm, so the sooner they got logs in the fire the better. He dragged in two pieces of firewood from the cold, trying to ignore the stinging pain from his shoulder and the knife wound on his back. After locating some matches, it was only a matter of time before he got the fire going.

Wes turned away from the stove as he held his hands up to his mouth, trying to warm them with his breath, rubbing them together. He almost jumped out of his skin when he found the girl standing behind him. She raised an eyebrow and copped an attitude, moving past him to warm herself in the firelight. 

Jesus, Wes thought. How the fuck did he end up with this one. 

He fell onto the couch and leaned forward towards the notebook on the coffee table. That was smart, he’d give her that. Without some way to communicate, this would have been damn near impossible. He scribbled down the page, and when he was done, Wes rapped his knuckle twice against the faux wood grain of the table. 

The girl--Nikki, right?--limped over and read down the list:

Clean the wounds. Urgent.  
Handcuffs off. Not so urgent but would be nice.  
Contact my people. Give it few days. Lay low for now.  
Figure out a plan. Preferable. 

Nikki looked up at him and nodded. Wes pointed to her leg--the maroon velour fabric she had used as a makeshift tourniquet was almost black with dried blood. He shook his head. She looked down, her face clouding up like the moments before a snowstorm. She muttered something. People did that; Numbers would, every once in awhile. Whatever she said, it was more for her benefit than his. He didn’t need to know, and he didn’t care to.

Wes stood, and moved around the coffee table toward her. She flinched at first, but he put his hands up, palms facing out. Nothing to fear. Nikki relaxed, just a little. He slowly stepped to her side and draped her arm around his shoulders. Together, they shuffled toward the bathroom, him half-carrying her with his good arm. 

Nikki lay in the bathtub, pant leg rolled up to the knee, the puncture wounds on either side of her calf exposed and bleeding slowly. Wes had pulled out the first aid kit from the cabinet above the sink, and all the necessary antiseptics and bandages were lined up on the edge of the tub. He filled a cup full of warm water from the tap and got down on both knees on the bath mat next to her. He moved to pour it over her leg, and just as he did she grabbed his other hand. Wes stopped to look at her. She was scared, her eyes wide and tired, her lips pale and cracked. He squeezed her hand, and attempted a reassuring nod. Nikki forced her eyes shut, and nodded for him to proceed.

One of the first things you learn when you choose this line of work is how to dress a wound. Granted, they were usually from bullets, or knives, not arrows shot clean through. But the principal was the same, Wes imagined. He had done this a hundred times, and had it done on him more than that. 

He was glad he couldn’t hear her. The water didn’t seem bad, but when he moved onto the peroxide she wouldn’t stop writhing. He didn’t like to see it, and he sure as hell couldn’t have handled the screaming. Wes glanced up at her, biting her lip and tears smearing her mascara down her face. But once the wound was cleaned out, the worst was over, and she stayed still during the wrapping for the most part. Her chest moved up and down, ragged breaths slowing eventually as she wiped her eyes. 

Nikki reached to the notebook sitting on the lid of the toilet, and scribbled out a messy “Thanks.”

Wes nodded, taking the pad from her and writing a response. “My turn.”

Nikki sighed, and reached a hand up to him. Wes helped her out of the tub, and as she struggled to stand her t-shirt rode up. Wes caught a glimpse of her stomach--not that he was looking--and frowned. Blue and black bruises bloomed like flowers under her shirt. Christ. Whoever had it in for this woman didn’t have any qualms about getting dirty. Looks like she had already learned the first commandment that comes with a life of crime: make yourself hard to kill. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wrench sat on the edge of the bed, and Nikki was on her knees behind him. She glanced at the notebook next to her, the list of directions for cleaning and dressing the wounds. 

He had taken that ugly, blood-soaked turtleneck off, and his shoulders were broad and hunched. The long knife gash was on his back, although luckily it wasn't too deep. Had to go through a buckskin jacket, after all. Nikki tapped him twice on the shoulder, and he gave her a thumbs up. 

He hissed when she used the alcohol, gathering the comforter up into his fists. His whole body tensed under her hands. Before she bandaged, Nikki rested a shaky hand on his shoulder, moving it slowly in a circle. Wrench glanced at her. She finished dressing the wound. 

Now time for the shoulder. That Russian fuck had nailed him right under the collarbone. Nikki put her index finger in the air and swirled it in a circle. Turn around. 

They were facing each other. He watched as Nikki wiped down the tender tissue around the wound, as she soaked the gauze pad. She locked eyes with him, her huge kewpie doll gaze meeting his steely, serious glare. Ready? He gritted his teeth. Nikki pressed the peroxide into the hole on his chest, and Wrench sucked in a sickening breath. His eyes squeezed shut and he banged a fist against his knee once, twice. Nikki frowned and tried to finish up quick she could while making sure to get the job done. A bit more gauze and tape and she was finished. 

She noticed these wouldn't be his first scars. His back, chest, and stomach bore evidence of countless other run-ins with sharp edges and lead. Some of the wounds looked like they should have been fatal. 

Nikki looked up, and he was watching her. Her face went hot. Wrench raised an eyebrow. He flattened his palm, touched his fingers to his chin, and brought his hand down palm up towards her, mouthing “Thank you.”

Mirroring his movement, trying to commit it to memory, Nikki echoed “Thank you.” Wrench nodded, the corner of his mouth twisting up. 

Noticing the notebook, Wrench grabbed the pen, wrote, and showed Nikki. “Now get some rest.” 

Nikki began to stammer out loud “A-are you sure…”

But he had already left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wes didn’t know a person could sleep for 18 hours. This gal must have been to hell and back before she landed in that seat next to him. Nikki passing out (in the only bed in the damn place) did give him time to get his wits about him, at least. 36 hours ago he was en route to Shakopee Correctional, and while he couldn’t say the journey was a barrel of laughs, he much preferred this icebox to a cell. But bus crash meant attention, which meant cops, which meant somewhere in The Gopher State an underpaid lawman was comparing the lists of convict transport and bodies found. It was only a matter of time before Wrench and Swango were on every police radio broadcast from Worthington to Grand Portage. That meant he was stuck in this Lincoln Log palace, with one Nikki Swango, for the forseeable future. 

Could be worse. 

First thing after dressing the wounds? Getting cleaned up. Showering with a bandaged back and shoulder wasn't easy, but Wes managed. At least there was hot water. He was that special kind of cold, the almost numb at the edges frigid. When the shower stream hit skin it felt like a million hot needles. It wasn't the worst feeling he'd had in the past few hours.

Once the blood and dirt were circling the drain and the circulation was returning to his fingers, Wes turned off the tap. He looked around and realized. Clothes. Fuck.

His bloody, sweat and snow soaked outfit was in a pile by the toilet. Extra clothes would be in the closet, in the bedroom. Wes sighed.

She hadn’t locked the door, thank god. Although that may have been a dumb move on her part, at least on paper. Strange man she knew next to nothing about lurking around as she slept? But anyway, he was grateful for her trustworthiness, no matter how stupid. The cold was already getting to him again as he shivered with a towel wrapped around him. Quick as he could, Wes slipped in. Nikki was out, dead asleep, curled up in a ball under the blankets. He crept to the closet.

Sweatshirts and thermal underwear, socks and flannels, henleys and boxers and more blankets. He made a mental note to find out who keeps this place in cold weather wear and kiss them. Wes grabbed one of everything, indiscriminately, and high-tailed it back to the bathroom. 

Now that he was clean and dressed up to go nowhere, the couch was calling. He got some fitful hours on the ride up, but sleep was still tugging at his eyelids. That was another rule, one he broke readily in this case--never let your guard down around a stranger. But after trekking through the moonlit woods manacled together, beheading some fake-cop fucker, and playing target for a Russian big bad wolf, he didn't consider her a stranger. Besides, if she had waited till he was riding shotgun to slit his throat while he slept, she was more tenacious than he was a survivalist. 

Goddamn chivalry, Wes thought as he attempted to fold himself onto the couch. The gal drags him along while trained killers go hunting for pretty young thing, he gets a hilt to the chest courtesy of the crossfire, and he gives her the bed. Meanwhile he was hanging over the end of this glorified loveseat. That's what he was, an honest to god gentleman.


	2. Cabin Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nikki finally comes to, gets on the same page with Wes, and a special supply delivery arrives.

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs is a psychological concept that argues basic human necessities must be prioritized and satisfied before one experiences personal growth or contentment. Basically, in order to get any shit done you’ve got to have the following locked down: shelter, rest, food, water, and safety.

Wes was getting there.

When he woke up the next morning (by almost rolling off the couch), Wes was reminded by the vacancy in his stomach that the “food” necessity had taken a backseat to the “not dying” priority for the past few days. He scrounged around the kitchen and after rummaging through the cabinets, he decided pancakes would have to do. 

As he mixed the batter and brought the clanking stove to life, Wes wondered what Numbers would have to say about all this. Grady was always more careful, more focused, more risk-averse. But despite his best efforts his mouth got him in trouble more often than not. Wes knew that Numbers would have cut and run the second that axe broke the chain, left it up to God and natural selection for the broad to survive. Shacking up in the woods with someone whose dead body was worth a whole hell of a lot of trouble to some very bad people? Wes could almost feel the smack upside the head Numbers would have delivered.

But Grady was dead and Wes wasn't, and he was tired of being the lone survivor. 

Closed captioning kept him company. They got some fuzzy reception from the states, PBS and public access and maybe a local NBC affiliate if you squint. On the Canuck side of the dial there was a CTV channel and, oddly enough, a station that seemed to exclusively air erotic French action movies from the 80s. Wes couldn’t complain. 

After a while with the subtitles, Wes wandered over to the cabinet the TV sat on. Top left drawer, he thought he remembered. Sure enough, maybe 7 or 8 burners sat covered in a thin layer of dust. Next to them, a few plastic cartridges with SIM cards inside. He grabbed one of each, and placed both on the coffee table. For later. 

He checked the drawer underneath that one, the one with the hollow bottom. He saw the glint of silver as the light revealed an S&W revolver. Just in case. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Nikki woke up, she didn’t know where she was. First she reached over for Ray, only to find the cold sheets vacant and stiff. Then the past came back knocking on the inside of her eyelids, and she remembered in fits and starts. A cell a bus a cabin. A much too tall deaf guy who was the closest thing to a friend she had right now. Her hair smelled like blood and smoke. 

She heard the tv murmuring in the living room. At least he hadn’t turned tail and ran. Or killed her in her sleep. He could have always killed her in her sleep. 

Nikki propped her wrapped leg on the cracked porcelain edge of the bathtub, letting the water warm her bruises and cuts. In the mirror she was more blue and black than anything. 

After throwing on clothes much too large for her (including a triple XL Timberwolves hoodie,) Nikki padded into the living room. She walked into his line of vision, and waved weakly. He nodded back, jerking a thumb back toward the kitchen. Pancakes. Nikki couldn’t remember the last time she ate. She remembered the last time food was offered to her, and that was when a psycho crooked cop tried to kill her execution style in her own cell. I mean, prison food was bad but not that bad, she thought bitterly, and attempted to push the memory from her mind.

She loaded up a plate and cautiously sat down at the other end of the couch. Crossing her legs beneath her, she signed to him “thank you.” 

He waved a hand, disregarding. Don’t worry about it. 

They ate in silence, watching the tan muscular men firing machine guns and kissing women and shouting at each other in French.

Nikki finished her pancakes, placed her plate on the table, and reached for the notebook. “It’s later.”

“What?”

“When I asked you what you do, in the car, after that magic trick you pulled at the checkpoint, you said we would get to that later. It’s later.”

Wrench furrowed his brows and thought a moment. “I’m a hitman,” he wrote. 

Nikki thought as much, but it’s one thing to think and another to know. She attempted to play it off. “How do you manage that? Are there a lot of folks in organized crime who know ASL?”

Rolling his eyes, Wrench responded “I had a hearing partner. That made things easier. But I get by.”

“Did they dodge arrest, or were they still on the bus?”

“Dead, 4 years now. Killed by some bad guys.”

Nikki frowned. “No offense, but you’re murder for hire. And not even a month ago I killed somebody with an air conditioner. Ever think we’re the bad guys?”

Wrench read through the question 2, 3 times. “There are worse guys.” He thought a moment, and added “Wait, what are we talking here? Window unit?”

Nikki gave up a wry grin despite herself. “A hitman who has contacts on border checkpoints, who has ‘people,’ who can drop names to get what he wants? Must work for some pretty important folks.”

Wrench looked torn, like he was unsure what to keep secret. He blinked and seemed to make up his mind, his mouth a hard straight line. “Sometimes to get by, you have to work for the worse guys.”

Nikki reached for the notebook but Wrench held it away from her, his eyes narrowing. “My turn.”

With a sigh, Nikki nodded begrudgingly. He was entitled to some details at least, since he saved her ass. 

“Who were those sons of bitches, why do they have it in for you, what landed you in that seat next to me. From the beginning.”

The beginning, Nikki thought. There were a few beginnings. But she began with the stamp, as natural a place as any. Pages filled up as she explained about Ray, and Ray’s brother. Ennis, founder of the Holy Parking Lot Empire, who left Ray on the hill with a red corvette. And whoever the hell that Devil was Ennis sold his soul to. About the mistaken identity, and the blackmail, and the killings. About her being blamed for Ray’s death, as if she could ever kill the man she loved, after all he did for her and all she did in return. Nikki’s pen lingered over the page as she recounted that night at the hotel, the last time she saw him. When he reassured her. But she forced words out, because that wasn’t the end. The attempt in the holding cell, the cop who seemed like she knew more than the others. And finally the bus. 

“You know the rest,” she finished. 

It took Wrench a bit to read the tale, his eyes sweeping over the pages. Finally he finished, and eventually he wrote back. “All this over a two cent stamp.”

“Yeah, seems stupid in hindsight.”

Wrench shrugged. “I’ve done worse for less.”

He furrowed his brow, and with a hesitant hand he reached out to touch Nikki’s shoulder. He signed fist to chest, in a circle. The same sign he used in the car, after he woke up scared. Sorry. Wrench added to the paper--”They can’t find us here. It’s over.”

Nikki frowned. “Maybe. But it sure as hell isn’t over. Not til I look that bastard ringleader in the eye and kill him myself.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that was how Wes decided he would help her kill a crime boss. Because of what she wrote, and how she wrote it. Because he knew exactly how it felt to get stuck under the thumb of something that felt unstoppable, something that was really just a man dressed up as the devil, no matter how convincing the mask. Because moral relativism only stayed convincing for so long, and because working for the man who killed his best friend under the guise of convenience made him feel sick. 

Because Malvo and the mysterious Mr. from Minnesota seemed to be the same breed of monster. 

But they would need time, to plan, to gather information, to be forgotten, or even better assumed dead. At least a few months. That meant supplies and calling in favors and not cutting ties with the old guard just yet. One thing about Malvo, if you stayed on his good side he would make sure you were provided for, whether that meant money or sex or maybe even rent-free accommodation in a drafty log cabin for as long as need be. 

She was wandering around the place, looking in drawers and cupboards, assessing what she found. Not much in the fridge because perishables, mostly cans of beans and soup to be found, a few boxes of the aforementioned pancake mix and ramen noodles. 

Nikki moved on to the living room, and Wes watched her all the while. The television was one of those with the DVD player built in, and she examined the three movies stacked atop the TV. 

Wes grinned. The Shining, Crimewave, and fucking Ratatouille. Nikki furrowed her brows and shot him a quizzical look. Really?

Wes answered with “The guy who keeps this place stocked thinks he’s funny. You’ll meet him sometime.”

She returned to the couch and took the notebook. “He one of your people?”

“For the time being.” Wes glanced at the burner on the table. “Speaking of, can you do me a favor?”

Nikki narrowed her eyes. 

“Usually my partner would make the call, for obvious reasons. Texting is out, it’s a digital paper trail. I’ll write down everything you need to say, you just have to dial the number and say it.”

Reading over the request, one corner of Nikki’s mouth twisted down into a worried frown. “What are we calling for?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wrench watched as Nikki dialed the number, her eyes flicking from the detailed instruction list on the page to the raised buttons of the flip phone. He nodded reassurance, but her stomach still dropped when the line began to ring. 

Once, twice. “This Donny.”

1\. Do not tell Donny your name. Before anything, say

“Mr. Malvo sends his regards,” Nikki said into the receiver, attempting to keep her voice calm and confident. 

“Aww Christ…” Donny grumbled on the other end of the line. “Wait, who is this? I didn’t know we had any broads on the payroll.”

2\. Say you’re calling on my behalf, and that the woods are occupied.

Nikki glanced at Wrench, keeping eye contact as she answered “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wrench. He wants you to know the woods are occupied.”

A nasty chuckle. “Damn, for a deaf guy he does alright, I guess. What’s on the shopping list?”

3\. Ask for the following:  
2 .25 Magnum handguns  
4 bottles of Jack Daniels  
15 boxes Rice a Roni  
2 boxes hot chocolate  
1 bag coffee grounds  
Police scanner  
The last week’s copies of The Minnesota Daily

“Oh, anything else, sweetheart?” Donny answered, annoyed. 

Wrench nodded, but Nikki didn't like this Donny character’s tone. “Few more things, Don--5 lined, spiral bound notebooks, and a deck of cards. And I don't ever wanna hear you call me sweetheart again.”

The moment he saw her lips moving overtime Wrench widened his eyes, shaking his head. 

Donny went silent on the other end, and a pang of regret ripped through Nikki. But then--

A chuckle. “Sure thing.” A click, then the line went dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a day for Donny to stop by. 

They spent that time slowly recovering, popping ibuprofen and changing bandages. Apparently it was Saturday, or at least that's what PBS said, when they introduced their Saturday Night Movie of the Week. All That Heaven Allows. Some 50s technicolor melodrama, it seemed, but Nikki seemed to enjoy it. Wes heated up some canned soup on the stove.

That has always been a fantasy of his, although he was unsure where the desire came from: to be so unhurried, so disconnected, so free of responsibilities and expectations, that he forgot what day it was. His chosen vocation wasn't known for the lack of job-related stress--too often he was tracking who would be at what hotel room in which city, who they worked for and how they were to be killed. There was a distinct possibility that he could wake up with a gun barrel in his mouth most days of the week. 

That made it easy for him to see the silver lining. Out here he could lose track of the hours save for the arc of the sun, leave his mental calendar to gather dust. He could pretend that this was different, that they were on vacation. He and her, a Canadian couple renting a cabin, away from their respectable city jobs. No not renting. If he was fantasizing why not go all the way and make it his rich dad’s cabin. He had always wanted to come from money.

She let him have the bed that night, for which he was grateful--he was still working out the crick in his neck from his night on the couch. She curled around herself like a cat on the couch, dozing off to the flickering blue of the winter vista onscreen that matched the frozen forest outside, and Wes retired to the bedroom.

At midday a knock sounded. Nikki was in the chair by the window reading an old Jacqueline Suzanne novel she found, and she bolted upright. Wes cast a glance towards her, and she pointed to the door. Wes set his jaw and crossed to the tv stand, removing the gun from the false-bottom drawer. Nikki widened her eyes, but he put a finger to his lips as he tucked the gun into his waistband. 

Deep breath. He trusted Donny as much as you could trust anyone in a business where trust was as much of a handicap as a tire iron to the knee. But that didn't mean he was gonna go into this blind. 

Cutting off the impatient guest mid-knock, Wes opened the door.

A short round man mad even rounder by his puffy jacket grinned and offered Wes a signed greeting. “Hi you son of a bitch.”

Wes gave up a weak grin somewhere between bemused and annoyed and signed back “Hey Donny, get your ass in here.”

Donny picked up the two canvas bags at his feet and entered. He immediately noticed Nikki standing against the wall in the corner of the living room. “You must be the young lady I spoke to on the phone, charmed,” he said out loud and signed when he dropped the bags. Wes began to check their contents against the list.

“You got one hell of a demanding tone on the telephone, you know?”

Nikki narrowed her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

Donny turned to Wes, and signed silently. “How did you manage to sneak a whore up here? What better way to spend these long cold lonely nights than with that fine piece of ass?”

Wes clenched his teeth, glancing at Nikki. She looked confused, and suspicious. Wes sighed, and forced a grin. “I appreciate the delivery, and it looks like everything we asked for is here. But if you ever call my friend a whore again I'll pull your teeth out one by one and force you to swallow them--they'll be your last solid foods for a while. So thanks, Donny, for everything, and I'll make sure you get a nice holiday bonus, but please. Get the fuck out.” 

Donny’s sleazy grin faded into a nasty grimace. He barked out a harsh laugh, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. Turning to Nikki he grinned.

“This guy, great sense of humor. Not too good with the delivery though.” His forced grin died on his face. “I threw in the champagne just for the hell of it, cause it's the holidays and I'm a saint. Enjoy New Years Eve tomorrow. I can't say it's been pleasant.” 

And with that, Donny was gone and their cabinets were full. 

“What did you say to him?” Nikki wrote.

Wes smirked. “Just wished him happy holidays.”


	3. Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally settling into a routine, Nikki and Wes have a tough conversation and see just how deep their newfound loyalty goes.

She taught him how to play bridge. This was easier said than done, and it took up a few pages front and back. But after 3 hours he was dealing the 13, learning the play and the bidding. It requires 4 people but each pair was a team, a couple who dealt in strategy and intuition, and soon they were reading each other’s eyes like sign posts. 

He’s a quick learner, Nikki thought as she watched him study the cards. And they seemed to work well together, although nowhere near as simpatico as Stussy and Swango. Wasn’t much use thinking about that now, but it was true all the same. 

She wondered what Donny had said, and what Wrench had said in return. Nikki knew what it meant when a man got that wolf-hungry squint in his eye, when he looked a little too close and a little too long and ran a tongue over his front teeth. Like she was Christmas dinner. Even talking with hands, Nikki knew the words. They rang like a refrain in her ears, and had since she was 12 or so. But mostly she wondered what was said to make that creeping red glare on Donny’s face wither and die, replaced with something close to fear. 

This wasn’t the first time a man had tried to defend her, but usually it was to make himself seem better, more noble in comparison. When it comes to men, all roads lead to Rome. But he had never looked at her crooked, not once in the hours and hours. It was more like meeting eye level. It was more like equals. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He taught her a few signs, the basics and the ones she may need. Write a word, do the sign, she repeated the gesture while reading the meaning. 

Money  
Dinner  
Gun  
Drink  
Shower  
Jail  
Sleep  
Partner  
Kill

She was good at it, Wes thought as she went through the list quizzing herself, doodling little stick figures of the basic gestures. A quick learner. Soon enough they could very well be the first, only, and best deaf-hearing bridge team in the upper Midwest.

Wes thought she was beautiful when she signed kill, but he also thought she was beautiful when she boiled rice in a bag, or when she was chained to the back of a bus seat with him, or when she winced as she bent over to tend the fire and he remembered her bruises. But then again, anyone with eyes could tell she was beautiful when she did any of that. 

Numbers was always the one concerned about getting laid, forcing Wes to sit in the lobby of trash hotels off the highway into the morning hours. Not that Wrench hadn’t had his share, but it was harder to come by and wasn’t a priority. Wes had grown to value something else more than romance, or sex, or whatever that kind of companionship constituted. More than anything he wanted a partner, someone who may or may not love him and may or may not fuck him but above all ride or die respected him. Knew him in and out, bad and worst, and remained loyal to a fault. Numbers was that to him once, a best friend and an accomplice and the best damn partner anyone could ever ask for. Wes had killed for Grady so many times he lost count, and he would again in a heartbeat, because he knew Grady had done the same for him tenfold.

Some things were more important than love. Bigger. 

Beheading a man with a handcuff chain made love look like a bitch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nikki was cozied up on the couch, watching the snowfall outside, warm mug of spiked hot chocolate in her hands, when Wrench came out of the bedroom. He had taken a nap, and from the sound of his tossing it wasn’t a restful one. Rubbing his eyes and looking tired to the bone, he took a seat by Nikki.

Gingerly, he took the notebook, and wrote methodically, thinking between the words. 

“Had a dream, about that bowling alley. Do you remember the bowling alley?”

Nikki nodded. The pink neon splattered over the moon blue snow, promising something like safe when the night closed its grip on their necks.

“Do a lot of bowling alleys stay open all night?” Wrench wrote, but it wasn’t meant to be answered. He kept writing. “Who was that man you talked to at the bar.”

Period, no question mark. Nikki sighed. 

She took the pad. He would think she was crazy, and maybe she was. But the burning certainty remained. 

“I don’t know who he was, but I think he was God.”

Wrench raised his eyebrows slightly. “I don’t believe in God,” he answered. 

“Yeah I didn’t either till he ordered me a drink and let me hold a kitten and told me about the Cossacks’ massacring the Jews.”

Frowning a bit, trying to comprehend. “Maybe he was just a crazy old man.”

“Maybe,” Nikki conceded. “Some of the stuff he said though… He told me I would remember, and somehow I do. He said that we all end up there, what we saw as the bowling alley, ‘to be weighed and judged.’ That we must rise for him against the wicked, we have to take a stand against those who do evil.”

“You think he was talking about your Man from Minnesota?” There wasn’t judgement in his eyes, just discerning, just attempting. 

“I do. I know it sounds insane but it made perfect sense in the moment. I think we made it out for a reason, you and me. He mentioned you particularly.”

Wrench shot her a look, suspicion finally clouding his gaze. He nodded. Go on. 

Nikki frowned, closed her eyes, and wrote. “He said something like there are those who thought you should stay behind, but he ‘convinced them that you were on a better path now.’ Now I don’t pretend to know who he was talking about or what that all means, but I think--I believe, that maybe this mission is as much for you as it is for me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wes had never thought much of redemption. That was the bullshit for inspirational memoirists, recovering alcoholics, or Christians reborn. He was none of these things. He didn’t believe in a street gang of angels taking orders from an old man at a bowling alley bar, and he didn’t like the thought of anyone arguing for or against his eternal soul. Wes was more of a manifest his own destiny kinda guy, come what may. But he couldn’t ignore the fuzzy circumstances of that night, the kismet and the happenstance. A harbor in the forest, a green VW. 

He may very well have been saved. 

And for someone who had given up any semblance of hope years ago with the click of a gun hammer, having someone in his corner was an unfamiliar if not totally unwelcome feeling. 

Wes had already decided, after all. To help rid her immediate world of evil. The Wicked. He guessed Wicked knew Wicked well enough.

Hesitantly he took the pen: “Let’s say you're right and the God at the Bar argued for us and won, we have a ringing endorsement from the Jewish Lord to kill those sons of bitches. Let's say we win and we make it out the other end with their heads and their money, all of it.” We leveled a stare at her. “What after?”

Nikki shrugged. “After doesn't matter right now.”

Wrench rolled his eyes. “You're not that stupid. Revenge sticks to you. After it's over you look around and you still have no one, not even an enemy. It won't bring Ray back and it won't make you the person you were before.”

Nikki clenched her jaw. “Maybe.”

“Not just maybe. So you promise me--after this is over, whether we stick together or go our separate ways--you're done chasing. There's always someone else more tangential or incidental but you can't kill them all. Eventually you either run out of vengeance or turn it on yourself. And I'd hate to see that happen to someone as smart as Nikki Swango.”

She blinked as she read it, and smiled a sad smile. Nikki offered her hand. Wrench chuckled and nodded, returning the handshake. Promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night the TV told them it was New Years Eve. Donny’s gift, from when he was in better spirits, chilled in the fridge. They watched as the static snow of the shit reception mimicked the gentle flakefall on the other side of the window pane. They could make out something that may have been Times Square, barely. 

10, 9, 8…

Nikki felt warm for the first time in recent memory. She had a bullet in her heart with a name on it, a love letter with a hilt for the wicked. She had the beginnings of vengeance that felt like the electric blanket draped across her shoulders, protective and promised. She had a man next to her who kept her secrets and told no lies, in a world full of secrets and lies masquerading as truth. Nikki had everything she needed.

7, 6, 5…

Wes wasn’t alone on New Years, for the first time in years. He was learning how to play bridge. He was alone together in a cabin and he could pretend it was forever, or even just a while. That was the thing about eschewing the timeline, shunning the narrative--no college no marriage no kids no 9 to 5, nothing to go home to or wake up next to. Nothing meant when the Hebrew God says hello or a beautiful woman asks you to kill or destiny reaches out a cuffed hand, there's no reason not to take it.

4, 3, 2, 1.

Happy New Year.

As Auld Lang Syne crackled over the speakers, Wes and Nikki toasted their novelty mugs full of cheap champagne. Nikki leaned her head gently on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and he did the same. They had resolutions to get to, but not just yet.


End file.
